


Close to the Edge

by DoesntMakeYouAGenius



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Indulgent whim, Major Character Injury, Mind vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-26
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2018-02-10 13:48:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2027373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoesntMakeYouAGenius/pseuds/DoesntMakeYouAGenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lewis, Hathaway and a double murderer are locked in a standoff on a rooftop.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Close to the Edge

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is pure indulgence of a whim. The location is non specific, the situation is perhaps a little flimsy, and the injuries/treatments may well be wrong or a bit loose. Nonetheless, I enjoyed writing it, and hope you enjoy reading it. All errors are my own.

"Listen to me, Mr Cavendish." Inspector Lewis reasoned with the deranged man before him, ignoring how his dark hair shifted in the strong winds.

Cavendish, in front of him, held a knife to sergeant Hathaway's throat, which was enough to set Lewis on edge alone, but this was added to their current position on the roof of an old library, worryingly close to the edge. Hathaway was helpless, his eyes wild, though he was trying to stay calm.

"I won't listen, inspector. You know that; I'm mad, why would I?"

"Please, Cavendish, there is always another way," Lewis pleaded, for Hathaway's sake more than the mad git who had already killed twice - and wouldn't hesitate to again.

"Not for me. I haven't got a choice anymore." Cavendish backed closer to the edge of the flat roof, drawing a reluctant Hathaway - desperately reaching for a way out - with him.

"There must be something, man. Why do you need to do this?"

"I've got nothing worth living for. The two men who killed my wife are dead; she is avenged. I don't have a purpose, anymore." His voice wavered, the knife he held at Hathaway's windpipe trembling.

"Why Hathaway? What's he ever done to you?" Lewis tried to get closer to the two men without alarming Cavendish, inching slowly forward.

"He got in my way. So did you, but you're tricky. He was just easier to get hold of. I've got to come up with a way to kill you both, now." Cavendish's quavering voice was now stony and calculating. Lewis' blood ran cold; Hathaway was too easy to kill in his present position, Lewis needed to get him out.

Cavendish had reached the edge of the roof, he was preparing for his big finale.

"Well done, inspector. I'm sure all the records will say you tried your hardest, but alas, 'twas not to be."

As Cavendish began to take the final step backwards, the one that would carry him over the edge, Lewis rushed forwards, determined to disarm the maniac and rescue his sergeant.

Cavendish fell backwards, it was a long way down, Lewis didn't think he would survive the fall. Having knocked the killer's arm away from his sergeant, the DI grabbed Hathaway around the waist and pulled him away from the edge. In a last gasp attempt to take Hathaway with him, Cavendish grabbed for the sergeant's side, and Hathaway teetered on the edge before Lewis yanked him out of reach of their murderer. He vanished over the edge of the building.

Lewis released Hathaway, both of them breathing heavily. When Hathaway collapsed, the DI assumed it was simply a combination of shock and adrenaline, and he didn't consider for a second that in his flailing last moments, Marcus Cavendish had buried his carving knife up to the handle into Hathaway's side.

"Sir." Hathaway sounded calm, Lewis hadn't yet seen the knife from where he bent double, recovering from nearly losing his sergeant. He didn't realise that Hathaway's life still hung very much in the balance.

"Jesus, lad, you gave me a scare, then. I thought I'd lost you. Are you okay?" It only occurred to Lewis at the last minute that Hathaway may be hurt anyway.

"Sir, please stay calm, but I'm going to need an ambulance very quickly." Hathaway's words came out pained and breathless.

Lewis' head snapped up, and he suddenly saw the handle of the knife protruding from Hathaway's side, along with the rapidly expanding dark stain on his grey suit jacket.

"Jesus Christ, man." Lewis couldn't think what else to say. He whipped his phone out of his pocket, almost dropping it twice as he punched in 999.

Hathaway's whole right side throbbed, shooting pains through his abdomen. His hand, from where it had been fisted at his hip, was stained with blood - he dimly registered it was his own.

His head drooped, slumping onto his shoulder as his body tried to curl around the obtrusive object impaling him. Before him, Lewis stood up to make his call to the emergency services, and Hathaway's vision smeared. The pain, intensifying by the second, was blurring his thoughts, rendering him incapable of moving without crying out.

Hathaway was struggling for consciousness as Lewis hung up and crouched beside him. "Help is coming, lad, stay with me," he murmured.

"Yes, sir," Hathaway bit out, forming his sentences through a dark cloud over his thoughts.

Hathaway kept wrapping his hand around the handle of the long kitchen knife, but then the rational part of his mind, the small area unaffected by the pain, reminded him that that would be a bad idea. He began to tip over onto his side, but Lewis caught him and set him right.

"Hathaway, listen to me, man. You have to stay awake," Lewis pleaded, gently shaking the sergeant's shoulders. Dark blue eyes flickered open, not quite seeing.

"I'm trying." Was the whispered response. 

"I know, lad, but you have to try harder," Lewis urged, desperate to do everything in his power to help his injured colleague, but unsure what could be done.

"Yes, sir." Hathaway was fading, fast. His strength was flagging, leaking away as the stain on his shirt grew bigger and darker. Lewis could see this, and was fundamentally helpless as Hathaway's eyes drifted shut.

"Hathaway, Hathaway, James, lad, talk to me!" Lewis desperately tried to revive his sergeant, but the younger man was unresponsive. Hathaway's consciousness drained away and his vision faded completely.

Lewis kept a tight hold on Hathaway's shoulders, locking him in place so he didn't pitch to one side and dislodge the knife. Lewis knew that moving the knife could mean pretty much instant death for the young sergeant. 

So intent was he on keeping Hathaway in place, and focussing on his pulse, he barely registered the whump whump of the air ambulance blades as it came in to land on the flat area of roof beside where Hathaway currently sat. Lewis was gently eased away from his charge, his hands pulled from Hathaway's shoulders. He stood and stepped away, giving the paramedics as much space as possible without taking his eyes off Hathaway's ashen face as he was loaded onto a stretcher and into the helicopter. Lewis jumped up with him, and they took off.

Hathaway didn't wake up on the flight. He didn't even stir, or respond to any of the paramedics' attempts to revive him. He just remained stubbornly still and silent. It felt like he didn't want to wake up, but Lewis refused to believe that was the truth. Hathaway may be a sarcastic, mildly pessimistic, and black-humoured person, but Lewis got the impression that he enjoyed life, on the whole. So why wouldn't he open his eyes?

Lewis kept trying to draw his mind away from Hathaway's plight, but he did a woeful job, and spent the whole flight worrying, fretting, and blaming himself.

Lewis drummed his fingers on his leg, impatiently willing Hathaway awake. Blissfully unaware of his governor sitting by, worried sick, Hathaway slept on, stretched out coldly on a metal board.

The landing jerked Lewis from his monotonous hoping and worrying, but he leapt into action as the paramedics rushed Hathaway away. Lewis followed as far as surgery, muttering reassurances under his breath all the while, whether to himself or Hathaway he was unsure. He stopped at the doors, knowing he would only get in the way if he went on any further.

He ran his hands quickly through his hair, gaze locked on the doors, swinging shut in his face with finality. He turned around, twice, before heading for the waiting room for the long wait.

He sat alone for a while, only able to mull over all the things that could go wrong and lead Hathaway straight up the winding track to his demise, so he was pleasantly surprised when the figure of Dr Laura Hobson settled down beside him. 

"I heard about Hathaway. How is he?" She asked. Lewis just shook his head.

"I don't know, no one's told me anything. But I suppose no news is good news, eh?" He attempted a smile, and Hobson grinned warmly.

"He'll be fine. He's too proud to die." Hobson put her hand over Lewis'. "You know he'll be fine," she stated, and Lewis nodded. 

"I'd just like to hear from the bustling, white-coated masses, is all." 

"I know, but be patient. They'll come soon, and it'll be with good news, just you wait." 

Lewis hugged her close. "Thanks for coming along, pet. I appreciate it."

"You're welcome." Hobson smiled.

As Lewis released her, a small nurse approached him, hesitantly inquiring if he was Inspector Lewis. Lewis stood.

"That's me, yes. How is he?" Lewis didn't feel the need to specify who he was talking about.

"He's out of surgery, everything's gone smoothly. It was a good thing the knife wasn't dislodged or removed, it would have made our job a lot more difficult. Instead, it was a clean cut, we've removed the knife and stitched up the wound, and you can come and see him. He should come around shortly." The nurse smiled warmly.

Lewis smiled back. "Thanks, pet, where is he?"

"I'll walk you down. It's not far." She turned and walked away and Lewis followed, pausing only to offer his hand to Hobson, who willingly took it and followed.

***

Hathaway's eyes opened slowly, slitting open and then closing at the onslaught of whiteness. He tried twice more, finally able to open his eyes fully, though his vision was still a little blurry. He blinked furiously, trying to get rid of the wateriness.

"Good to have you back in the land of the living, lad," Lewis said from his bedside. "Doctor Hobson just left, she'll be disappointed to've missed you."

Hathaway turned to look, then remembered everything with brutal clarity. The fear he had felt, backing towards the edge of the roof, unable to do anything but watch and shuffle inexorably closer, the sensation of the air leaving his lungs, like he had been punched, as he was stabbed with a wickedly sharp knife.

His slender fingers probed his side beneath the blankets, feeling the thick gauze beneath his fingers.

"What happened to Cavendish?" He asked, mildly surprised by the steadiness of his own voice.

"Dead. Very, dead." Lewis grimaced.

"How can you be more dead than just dead, sir?" Hathaway cocked his head.

"Good to see he didn't accidentally murder your sarcasm, then. There wasn't really much of him left. Strawberry jam, if you catch my drift."

"Ah." Hathaway understood clearly. 

"The nurse tells me that you're going to be completely fine. A few weeks, she said, and you'll be out. Just think how much paperwork you could end up with in that time." Lewis leaned back, smirking. "And no doubt the chief super will want a word. Mucking about with double murderers and rooftops, indeed."

Hathaway groaned. "You know, I sometimes wonder whether or not killing you would be worth the prison sentence."

Lewis laughed. Patting the side of Hathaway's bed, he stood. "I'd best be off. Wouldn't want to keep your brilliant mind from formulating an excuse for not calling backup."

Hathaway groaned again.

"Seriously, lad, get some sleep. It'll help you heal."

"Yes, doctor," Hathaway replied dryly.

Lewis raised and eyebrow and left, closing the door behind him with a click.


End file.
